When You're Dead
by Torrnickel
Summary: Sherlock's experiments are waking John up at night and one night, he finally attempts to do something about it. One-shot, pre-Series 3,


John woke up to the incessant beeping of the apartment's fire alarm, bleary eyed and very much annoyed. He turned to the right and attempted to read the digital numbers off of his clock, rubbing his eyes. 4:03. Four o'clock in the bloody morning. Couldn't Sherlock's experiment wait until dawn, at the very least?

Grumbling, he walked down the stairs and saw Sherlock using a magazine of some sort – wait, a gossip magazine? Where did that come from? – to fan the smoke away from the alarm, annoyed for an entirely different reason.

"The reaction wasn't supposed to be that substantial," Sherlock frowned, his eyes now focused on the Erlenmeyer flask that the smoke had been coming from. "Did you tamper with any of my equipment, John?" he asked, searching his work space for anything that could have been out of the place with his nearly ever-present calm. By now, the alarm had stopped beeping but for all that Sherlock seemed to notice at this point, it hadn't even existed in the first place.

"What?" John shook his head and blinked rapidly a few times, his fuzzy mind not completely processing what the consulting detective had said. "It's four in the morning, Sherlock. Go to sleep." He had attempted to sound authoritative, if only a little, but had probably ended up sounding exhausted and exasperated, which he was. Sherlock had been up at night with his experiments a lot more often than usual, which sometimes resulted in loud noises and destroyed kitchen items. John just wanted to go to sleep without being woken up by a small explosion a few hours later; was that so much to ask?

"Not tired," Sherlock stated as he recorded several observations on the experiment in a notebook. "My body has adapted to require less sleep." He turned to glance at John before continuing with his experiment. "You, however, have not been getting enough sleep as evidenced by your progressively worsening coordination and somewhat dazed appearance over the last few days." Sherlock finally looked John in the eye, one eyebrow raised. "If anyone, you should be the one going to sleep."

John was too tired to argue further, so he simply began to trudge back to his room. "Fine," he muttered, "whatever. You can sleep when you're dead. I don't care."

"I suppose so," Sherlock responded to nobody as he cleaned the flask and put it away.

*'*'*

John was yet to come to terms with Sherlock's death at all. Several months had passed at this point, but the pain still felt as fresh as it did when he saw Sherlock on the ground in front of St. Bart's. He had jumped right there in front of him, his body smashing onto the concrete (_Don't think about it_, he thought yet again) but John couldn't accept it for one reason or another. Sherlock was a genius; surely, he could have figured out a way to fake his death. However, the lack of pulse that he had felt and an autopsy report had said otherwise. However, a part of him was still desperately clinging onto the idea that Sherlock was still out there, just waiting for the right time to come back. He would waltz into 221B as if he had never left and complain that there wasn't any milk (again) before stealing John's laptop merely because it was two inches closer to him.

On an uncharacteristically sunny morning, John found himself standing in front of Sherlock's grave again, but now with cane in hand. He didn't visit often; even waking up in 221B was bad enough. Mrs. Hudson had never asked for Sherlock's share of the rent, bless her, but he was still thinking of moving all the same. Too many memories there.

"Hey," John started, "I guess you're still here." He felt a bit stupid after pointing out something so obvious, but he pushed onward. "I know that I've said this before, but you…you were – are – absolutely brilliant. And…and I still believe in you, you know. That Moriarty was real." He stared at the ground, not wanting to have to read the words on the stone again, words that he didn't want to believe. However, he was starting to look at the facts. Logically, just as Sherlock would have. There was certainly no way that he could have survived a jump like that, for starters. John sighed, not knowing what he wanted to believe anymore and just wanting it all to go away.

Almost as if it were planned, his mind flashed back to the days when he was unable to sleep because of loud noises and not emotional turmoil. A bitter laugh escaped his lips.

"I suppose you're sleeping now, at least."


End file.
